


A Bard In The Hand

by copperbadge



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Comedy, Historical, M/M, Mention of COVID-19, Multi, RPF, References to Hamlet, References to Shakespeare, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Twelfth Night - Freeform, mention of pandemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25358344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: Aziraphale finds a new dinner spot, Crowley invents marketing, and William Shakespeare gets extremely lucky.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/William Shakespeare, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)/William Shakespeare
Comments: 142
Kudos: 725





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @girlpearl on Tumblr for pestering me into the idea and @junietwohundred on tumblr for not murdering me while beta-reading.

When Aziraphale returned from Scotland -- horses really were the worst, there must be a more civilized way to go about things* -- he sought Crowley out first. It was just to report on the cattle-stealing so that if Hell inquired Crowley would have the basics. Not because he wanted to make Crowley feel guilty for all the horse nonsense, or because making him feel guilty would almost certainly result in Crowley buying him a bite to eat and sharing some wine. 

* With the advent of the automobile centuries later there was a bright, shining, hopeful moment when Aziraphale thought, _Ah, yes. The truly civilized way to travel._ Ten minutes after thinking this, he witnessed Crowley's driving for the first time from inside Crowley's new car (the spiritual predecessor of the Bentley), and realized that somewhere A Mistake Had Been Made. 

Crowley wasn't loitering in the taverns spreading rumors, though, and he wasn't hanging about the presses inserting humorous typos or wrangling first printings for Aziraphale's growing library. (He really would need to find a larger place to store them all soon.) 

Their intersecting interests and the random movement of London's masses would bounce them back together sooner or later -- it always did -- so Aziraphale decided he might as well entertain himself in the meantime. He stopped at his town-house briefly to inform his serving boy that he'd be at the theatre, and to pass the message to Master Crowley if he should come by. The boy, who knew Master Crowley of old and knew he would likely get a coin or two from Crowley for bearing the message, agreeably settled by the front windows to watch for him. 

When Aziraphale arrived at the Globe, he had to press through a crowd of excitedly chattering theatre-goers to get to the front entrance, where the ticket-seller was lounging with Juliet the fruit-vendor. 

"Good afternoon, Master Fell," the ticket-seller said. 

"Good afternoon, er -- "

"Robert."

"Yes, sorry. Business seems brisk," Aziraphale noted. 

"So it is, sir! And Juliet's business has picked up too, eh?" the man said, elbowing her with a grin. She grinned back. 

"Oh yes, I imagine you've sold ever so many oranges," Aziraphale said. 

"And quite a lot of pie," she said, amused. 

"Oh my dear, do you sell pies now?" Aziraphale asked, momentarily distracted. 

Juliet and Robert exchanged a look.

"Didn't think you went in for pie, Mr. Fell," she said. "You always seemed the kind as would prefer a nice dressed cock."

"Oh, indeed, I'm a man of many tastes," Aziraphale replied. "But we'll discuss your pies later, my dear. I'd like one for the Pit, please," he said to Robert, who seemed to be having trouble breathing. 

"Afraid we're sold out, Master Fell," Robert managed, as Juliet walked off, laughing. "Not a single admission left for the Pit." 

"Dear me. Well, something in the galleries then -- "

"Can't, I'm afraid. No tickets left for today, nor tomorrow's showings either."

"Tomorrow's! How can you know?"

"It's something Will's new agent invented," Robert said, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's called _Advance Tickets_. See, you turn someone away today but you tell 'em you can get 'em in tomorrow if they slip you a bit extra -- "

"This new agent," Aziraphale said, suddenly suspicious. 

"Master Crowley," Robert answered. "Imagine a gentleman like him taking paid work from a glover's son like Will. It's a new modern age, so it is, Master Fell." 

"Good at his job then, I suppose," Aziraphale said. 

"Well, he's made a success of _Hamlet_. He might be an actual wizard. You ought to be careful hanging about Master Crowley." 

"Yes, I suppose I ought," Aziraphale sighed. "Well, I'll ask you to save me a ticket for whenever the Pit's open again -- " 

"No need," said a familiar voice, and William Shakespeare's hand clasped his arm. "Master Fell! Isn't it a nice crowd? It's all right, Robert, he can come in with me."

"As you like, Will," Robert replied, and Aziraphale found himself being led along through the crowds, which parted slightly before them when people saw who it was. 

"We'll just nip through the tiring house. Come on, I'll lay odds you've never watched from the Heavens before, have you?" Shakespeare asked. 

"Not in a long time," Aziraphale murmured, following him backstage and up a set of narrow stairs. 

"You see, when my fortunes are high, I don't forget my friends who lingered when I was low," Shakespeare continued, throwing him a dazzling smile over his shoulder, and Aziraphale remembered he'd been an actor before he was a playwright and still kept his hand in from time to time. "And don't think I don't know Master Crowley's work is all your doing."

"My doing!" 

"Well, you're friends, aren't you? He told me you asked him to see if he couldn't do something about attendance," Shakespeare continued, winding his way past a couple of rickety partitions. There were a few mismatched chairs set up against what looked like a blank wooden wall. "Said you'd have handled it yourself but you were off to Scotland on business. I didn't know either of you were familiar with the theatre from the other end."

"The other end?" Aziraphale repeated.

"Promotion, clearances from the censors -- the business side."

"Oh, well. I dabble now and again," Aziraphale said. "Most of my business is, erm, religious in nature."

"Seller of indulgences, are we?" Shakespeare asked with a sidelong grin, settling into one of the chairs. 

"I manage interests for the Church," Aziraphale said.

"Small wonder you're always at the theatre, then. What a devil of a job," Shakespeare replied. He fiddled with a latch and a pair of panels in the wall slid back, opening like little windows. "Now, this is not a _good_ place to see the show, mind you, but it is the most _interesting_ , I think."

Aziraphale peered through one of the windows. From here, just below the roof of the stage -- the Heavens Will had mentioned -- one could look down on the stage from the back of it. In this particular place, they could sit unseen by the audience but still see most of the stage and almost all of the pit. People were milling about waiting for the play to start, joking with one another, picking little fights, eating fruit and toasted chestnuts. 

"I like to watch the groundlings watch," Shakespeare said, a little wistfully. "I wrote the bloody thing, I've seen it in rehearsal, could probably recite it line for line, and they do say a man's work ruineth his play, so...this is the ever-changing stage for me." 

"That's...rather lovely, Master Shakespeare, if you don't mind my saying," Aziraphale said. 

"Will, please. And thank you." 

"Will, then."

"Are you a man of one name, like our Master Crowley?" Will asked. "He won't give me his Christian name. Says if he does I'll steal his soul and put him in a play."

Aziraphale laughed. "Master Crowley told _me_ he misplaced his Christian name entirely. You ought to put him in a play, really; he's very interesting."

"I might at that. But I was rather angling for your name in telling such a story, Master Fell," Will said, resting an elbow on the little ledge of the window and turning to give him a curious look. 

"Oh! It's such a bothersome long thing."

"Worried I'll steal your soul too, are you?"

The way he grinned when he said it was teasing, but it annoyed Aziraphale unaccountably. "It's Aziraphale, if you must know."

"Good lord. Aziraphale Fell. I suppose one can say it's musical," Will said. "Lovely rhythm to it, actually." 

"Rather a mouthful."

"Yes, I suspect you might be," Will said. "And is Master Crowley the only one permitted the small name?"

"How do you mean?" 

"Juliet does say he calls you Angel. I've heard him say it myself. I suppose you keep it for him, do you?" 

"Well, it's less awkward than Aziraphale. But it's just his way of teasing me -- it's an old joke," Aziraphale said, wishing he had a map for this conversation. "He doesn't own it. You may use it, if you like," he added, hoping he didn't sound as pompous as he felt he must. 

"May I?" Will beamed. "Well then. A favor most lightly bestowed and deeply accepted. Oh! Look, you can tell they all know it's about to start."

Aziraphale followed his gaze back through the window again; people were starting to fall silent, gathering in close.

"Watch. Some wisdom they know not turns them to the stage," Will whispered sidelong to him. 

Once the play started, it was easy to see why Will liked to watch the audience and not the play; reactions rippled through the upturned faces like a flock of birds, and blessed Burbage actually knew how to conduct the attention of a crowd when he had a crowd to work with. Sometimes the theatre fell achingly silent, and sometimes Will would lean over and whisper, "Now watch, he's about to -- " and then the audience would gasp, or roar with laughter. 

"Ah, there, you see?" Will said, grasping his wrist to get his attention and nodding through the window, just as Hamlet approached the men digging Ophelia's grave. Aziraphale followed his gaze and saw a familiar head of red hair at the back of the Pit. "He always shows up for this bit."

"Well, he likes the funny parts," Aziraphale said. 

"Lots of people do. Shall have to do a comedy next; if I do another tragedy it'll look as if I'm riding my own coattails. Which do you care for best, comedy or tragedy?" 

"I like them all," Aziraphale said, watching Burbage deliver a eulogy on poor Yorick. "People do so love storytelling. All this wonderful ritual, the tickets and the stage and music and all, just to see William Shakespeare tell a ripping good story." 

"You flatter me, Angel," Will said, looking really rather shaken.

"Oh, I'm incapable of flattery. It's only the truth," Aziraphale said, turning back to the play. 

"And when you're done telling the truth, you go back to your business of the Church and running around town with Master Crowley, no doubt." 

"Well, I was sent here for a reason," Aziraphale answered absently. "But the Church pays little attention so long as the paperwork gets done. I imagine you work harder around three hours of the play than I do around eight hours of my own business."

"No balancing books by candlelight?"

"Dear me, no. My only commitments tonight are to clip Crowley round the ear for making me go to Scotland while he stayed here and got into mischief, and then to chivvy him into buying me a drink." 

"You could chivvy me into buying you one instead," Will said. "I know a good ale house, and the pangs of jealousy are sharper than those of guilt. Especially for one like Master Crowley."

"Would you really? Only I also have some questions to ask you about _Julius Caesar_ \-- "

Will laughed. "It would by my pleasure, Angel."

Onstage, Laertes and Hamlet both jumped into Ophelia's grave, and Aziraphale could see Crowley roll his eyes even with his dark glasses over them.

* * *

The ale house Will took him to was, to Aziraphale's surprise, one he wasn't familiar with. It was likely unlicensed, really just the front room of an old house populated with old furniture, but the smell from the kitchen was promising. 

"Most of their coin comes from my sort," Will said, as two tankards were set down in front of them. He kicked one leg up on the edge of the table, stretching back, tipping his chair onto two legs. "Quiet place to start the night's drinking, and it's exhausting treading the boards." 

"I imagine so," Aziraphale agreed. "Decent food?"

"You'll enjoy it. So, what did you think of the play from lofty heights?"

"I thought it was brilliant even when I saw it from the dust," Aziraphale told him earnestly.

Will smiled. "You say such charming things, and you really mean nothing by them but the compliment, don't you?"

"I told you, I'm not capable of flattery." 

"But you don't employ truth to any other purpose, is what I mean." 

"What other purpose is there?" Aziraphale asked. Will laughed. 

"You're well-named as an angel, Angel. I'm surprised you don't blush at my jokes." 

"Well, I suppose one could," Aziraphale said. He had been a little surprised at some of the bawdy-talk, the first time he'd come to see a Shakespeare play, but he also suspected some of it flew over his head. He didn't always keep up with the times as well as he ought. Occasionally the humans around him laughed (or Crowley laughed) for reasons he didn't quite fathom. "But I appreciate the art of a good play on words. The subject matter is irrelevant." 

Will leaned forward, chair clacking back down on its front legs. "Oh no, my dear Angel, the subject matter is always relevant! I have such things to say about the whole world, and I can't write enough to encompass it. Another three or four hundred years and I could just about get my arms around it all. So I must choose very carefully what I speak on." 

Aziraphale considered that if ever there was a man worth granting immortality, it would probably be this one. But then, that was the glory of humans, wasn't it? What urgency would there be to William Shakespeare if he had five hundred years? 

"And you choose....puns about sex?" Aziraphale asked with a smile. 

"When and as I can, yes, of course. The intercourse of humanity takes up a great deal of our time; it ought to take up a great deal of mine. But that's just the dressing. What I write about are people -- the flaws of kings, the passions of lovers, the doomed desire for glory. I want to wring the godhead out of every mortal. I want a bricklayer with a wife and nine children to see a king stumble as he himself stumbles."

"What a piece of work is a man," Aziraphale said. 

"In action how like an angel," Will agreed. "I knew you'd understand." 

"I try," Aziraphale said. Just then, a woman in a greasy apron arrived with a platter of food, her husband right behind her to top up their ale. A steaming fricassee'd rabbit, rich with herbs, lay on a bed of roasted new potatoes, and there was a pot of cheese and thick slabs of bread. 

"Gracious," Aziraphale managed. "I thought I knew everywhere in town capable of drawing up an appetite like this."

"You've never met a hungry actor after two matinees," Will said. "Go on. Please yourself; I'll have some cheese to start." 

Their conversation drifted as they ate, mainly to gossip: Will shared stories of various mishaps his actors got into, and Aziraphale talked of the presses, the new books coming out, the ones the censors had sent back for being too scandalous. At some point, Will shifted over to sit next to him, the better to illustrate the fine points of a stage design that had antagonized his actors. 

Aziraphale was just getting around to the questions he had about _Julius Caesar_ , since he had personally known the man and was curious about the mark he'd left on history, when Will moved closer, laying a hand on his thigh. 

"We're neither of us boys," Will said quietly, with a seriousness at odds with the last few hours of conversation. "And I think, given your talk of scandalous novels, neither of us innocents, Angel. Aziraphale."

"No," Aziraphale agreed, but he hesitated slightly. "Only..."

Will cocked his head, eyebrows rising, clear eyes pretty and curious. 

"Well, it isn't common for me," he said finally, not knowing how else to put it. _You mortals live such short lives, and it is so hard to love one of you --_

"Difficult to believe," Will said, his other hand rising to smooth down the hair at Aziraphale's temple. "Such a nice-looking fellow, and with such wit. Had I the keeping of you, I shouldn't let you out of my sight."

Aziraphale smiled at him. "No one's had the keeping of me in thousands of years, Will." 

"You're a bit of a poet, Angel. Not even your Master Crowley?" Will asked.

"Not even he," Aziraphale replied, turning so their mouths were very close. The ale, that must be it, or he’d never consider -- 

"Well, I don't offer a thousand years, Angel," Will said. "But I’d keep you for a night if permitted."

Aziraphale bowed his head, just enough so their foreheads touched, and their warm breath mingled. 

"Yes," he said, and Will laughed delightedly.

"My rooms are near to the Globe, unless you prefer -- "

"No, lay on," Aziraphale said, rising, tossing coins down for the meal. 

"I devoutly hope," Will agreed. 

Neither of them was especially steady on his feet. Aziraphale supposed he could have sobered up enough to steer them properly, but it was rather nice to stumble through an ale-softened London, Will's arm around his waist and his arm around Will's. To be wanted by the man who'd written _Much Ado About Nothing_ , who'd penned all the Henrys and Richardses, that was something to savor, and sobriety didn't much allow for that. 

Aziraphale kept just enough of an eye out to quietly drive off any pickpockets until they reached a tidy, narrow two-storey house near the river, and then he stumbled inside after Will. 

He had fleeting glimpses of the house itself -- a fire banked low in a sitting room, a half-open door to a kitchen -- before Will led him upstairs. At the top of the stairs they passed a small room strewn with paper and inkpots, down a narrow hall to a bedroom at the back, overlooking a little courtyard. The bed was large, and there was a fire here, too, though no servants were in evidence. 

"They know my habits," Will said with a grin, seeing Aziraphale's eyes on the grate. "A man of the arts keeps late nights. Tomorrow morning, the fire will be in the working room, to keep the ink from stiffening." 

"And what will you write, then?" Aziraphale asked, as Will stepped out of his shoes and tugged his narrow ruff off. 

"Don't know yet, do I? I've been at work on something about a duke who goes undercover as a monk, but I've not found my way into the story yet." Will pulled him close by the front of his doublet. "Much more interested in what I'll achieve tonight, Angel." 

Aziraphale kissed him, let him undo the fiddly clasps of Aziraphale's doublet and busied himself with the ties of Will's breeches. Will pressed a broad hand to Aziraphale's belly. 

" _There never was a sunrise fit to match,_ " Will murmured, his other hand stroking Aziraphale's hair, " _The pale white gold of thy unbounded head._ "

"Unbounded head, that's a bad phrase," Aziraphale teased.

"First draft," Will said, unrepentant. "Poets greater than I should pay tribute to this gold," he added, nuzzling up against Aziraphale's temple. " _Thou'rt a treasure greater than the fleece._ "

"Leave off your sonnets, Will," Aziraphale said. 

"Never. My words are a full half of me. Without them, I'm a dumb donkey, fit only for the glut and the rut." 

Will's hips jerked under Aziraphale's hand, seeming to prove his point, but Aziraphale kept kissing him.

"Your sonnets have already gone to proof with the press, and I'm no muse," he said.

"I'll do a second volume just for you, to prove you wrong -- oh! Angel," Will said, bucking against him. Aziraphale tightened his fingers around Will's cock inside his smalls. 

"Admit it, you only thought I was pretty," Aziraphale said, as Will leaned into him, mouthing at his neck. 

"Freely. I appreciate a beauty. _What_ a well-turned calf. But you are more -- " Will groaned. "A clever one you are, Angel." 

"Mm. Won't do," Aziraphale decided, pulling back. Will swayed forward to follow, but Aziraphale caught his thumbs in the waist of Will's breeches. "Off with all of it, Will." 

"Gladly." Will wriggled out of his breeches and hose and smalls, and Aziraphale used a few discreet miracles to make his own undressing a bit easier -- he did sometimes miss the simple chitons of Greece or the robes of Mesopotamia, so much less fiddly and complicated. Will dropped his doublet to the floor at last and came back to him, eyes wide and dark. 

"Why, you almost glow," Will said quietly, cupping his hands around Aziraphale's jaw. "He did well who made you." 

"She, actually," Aziraphale said with a smile. 

"I suppose women do make and unmake us both," Will said. 

"Something like that." Aziraphale pulled Will in, an arm around his waist, and felt the hot length of him against his thigh. "Come along to bed, and no more of your sweet talk." 

"Might as well tell the river to be still," Will said, but he went easily enough, falling onto the bed, hooking a thigh around Aziraphale's hip. "What would you have, Angel? My tastes are catholic, if not my inhibitions." 

Aziraphale rolled until he was on top, then kissed Will's shoulder. "I really don't do this very often," he said. 

"Then you must have some special want, some particular desire," Will replied, clever mouth quirking. "Or are you a man of simple parts? Do you prefer the thighs? Some do. Or the mouth? You seem eager enough to stop mine. Or -- " 

"Enough with your catalogue!" Aziraphale laughed. 

"I could write the filthiest of sonnets," Will informed him. 

"Now that would be an interesting sequel indeed. Some other time," Aziraphale said. He sat back on his heels, considering, and said, "Do you mind playing Ganymede?"

"A prouder man would," Will said. "Not I. Cupbearer to you? Any fellow should be so lucky." 

Aziraphale pressed both his hands to Will's hips, running them up his body appreciatively; as Will had said, they were neither of them boys, and Will had a solidity to him that came of being a man of indulgence in middle age. But human bodies, well...Aziraphale just liked them, liked the way skin felt, the way fat gave and muscle didn't, the suppleness of wrinkles, the messiness of mortality. Will seemed to enjoy it too, tipping his head back, soft noises escaping when Aziraphale brushed thumbs over his nipples, fingertips over his clavicles. 

"Oil in the washstand," Will said, gesturing loosely with one hand towards the wooden stand next to the bed, with its porcelain basin on top and its single drawer. Aziraphale kept one hand splayed on Will's chest and leaned over to investigate, coming up with a small earthenware pot. It smelled nice, like vervain and rosemary. One of those indulgences for a man of means, a country boy made good in London. 

It occurred to him, as he dipped his fingers in the oil and then into Will's body, that he was himself an indulgence. It shouldn't have been as thrilling as it was. Will canted his hips with each thrust of Aziraphale's fingers, moaning softly, muttering words mortal ears wouldn't have caught.

"Are you writing that filthy sonnet?" Aziraphale asked, amused, as Will bucked on his fingers. "Clearly I've not distracted you well enough."

"Don't be insulted, pray," Will managed, hands rising to cover his face. Aziraphale used his free hand to pull one of them down. "I cannot disentangle -- "

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale managed, suddenly infinitely fond. He could see the truth of it, looking with more than mortal eyes -- that for Will, sex and worship and the story were tied up together. The profane and the divine were linked in him by the word. Words, really. And Aziraphale did so love words. 

"A thousand verses on your brow," Will gasped, eyes shut, head thrown back. "No rhyme could contain your hands, oh, Angel -- "

"Speak as you like, Will," Aziraphale assured him. "I'll enjoy it regardless. There, now," he added, feeling Will's body give enough to accept his own. He took his fingers away, and Will whined. "Patience a moment, my dear," Aziraphale said. 

"Not even a fleeting second," Will said, then groaned aloud as Aziraphale pressed into him. "O Heavens -- " 

"Quite," Aziraphale agreed with a grin, hitching his hips, adjusting their bodies until he could thrust a little easier. He felt alight, as though Will had found some secret place in him and struck flint and steel there. Not long now -- 

Will was restless under him, bucking and groaning, hands first rising to grasp at nothing and then finally finding purchase on Aziraphale's waist, pulling him closer. A divine consummation, in more than one way; Aziraphale felt the tension coil inside of him, felt Will's release and followed him down, collapsing over him as he reached climax. Will laughed, a giddy look on his face. 

"I am taken like Rome fell to Caesar," he said, petting Aziraphale's hair. "Conquered like Jerusalem." 

"How you have the wits for words is beyond me," Aziraphale managed. 

"Oh my innocent. Everything in my life begets the words," Will replied, rolling them so that they lay on their sides, bodies intertwined. "Will you stay, good Angel?" 

"Of course," Aziraphale answered, delighted to be asked. "Would you like to sleep now, Will?"

"Mayhap. Don't you?" 

"I sleep very little, but I'll stand watch."

"Lie watch," Will mumbled, nuzzling his throat. "Those that watchful lie do lie in wait, and waiting upon another, do lie and serve; thus all servants are dishonest..."

Aziraphale, stroking his shoulders, cradling his body, listened until Will's prattling trailed off into sleep.

* * *

In the morning, there was breakfast laid for them, and Will made sure there was no awkwardness. He chatted cheerfully of the day's business, which was rehearsals for a remount of _Merchant of Venice_ and a meeting with Frank Bacon to discuss a collaboration on some political satire or other. Aziraphale had very little time for Bacon, who was a bit of a bore, but the man couldn't be faulted for devotion to country or to faith. 

"And what will you, Angel?" Will asked, over the last of the meal. "Off to minister to the Church?" 

"I suppose I ought," Aziraphale agreed. "But there is so much to catch up on, after having been in Scotland. I'll visit the publishers, for certain. See to the news, perhaps look in on the plays of your competitors." 

Will blew a raspberry. 

"And I really must find Crowley, to give him an account of business I handled for him in Scotland," Aziraphale finished. 

"Well, if you do, give him my regards and tell him he must come to see _Hamlet_ again all the way through, now that it's a success," Will said. "Burbage will give him no lip this time."

"I think he should rather see _Midsummer_ again, if you would be so kind," Aziraphale told him. "He doesn't like the tragedies." 

"Truly a man of good mirth," Will agreed, cocking his head. Aziraphale paused to reflect on how many people, in their thousands of years on Earth, had appraised Crowley as "of good mirth". Roughly one, he decided. 

"Well, we will have to consider Master Crowley's wishes," Will continued. "If you find him, bring him along to the ale house I showed you last night, and we may dine together this evening. And I must be off! A good morrow to ye, Angel."

"And to you, Will," Aziraphale said, feeling warm all the way through. He watched Will gather his things and leave, then cleared away the plates himself, offering a kind salute to the blushing scullery maid as he left.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where did you get off to, last night?" Crowley asked, when they finally ran into each other on the steps of Aziraphale's town-house later that morning. "Your boy said you'd gone to the Globe but I couldn't find hide nor hair of you."

"Oh! Do come in," Aziraphale said, leading the way into the foyer and through to the sitting-room, ringing for a wash-basin for himself and breakfast for Crowley. "Sorry, I did see you, but I didn't have time to say hello." 

"Fawning over Burbage, I imagine," Crowley said, without rancor. 

"Not at all, though it's nice to see him in front of the crowd he deserves. He's marvelous when he's got a proper audience, isn't he?" 

"Competent, anyway," Crowley allowed. "Then where were you? You're usually easy to spot."

"Will invited me up to watch from the Heavens," Aziraphale said. The boy staggered in under a full pitcher and basin, then scurried away to the kitchen for food. Aziraphale washed his hands and splashed water on his face, combing damply through his hair until it felt a bit less deflated. 

"Did he? That's exalted company, guest of the playwright. And on a first-name basis now," Crowley said, amused. 

"As if you didn't insinuate yourself in my absence," Aziraphale replied, drying himself as the boy brought in a platter of eggs and sliced meats. 

"Only doing like you asked, angel," Crowley said. "It turns out I've a bit of a natural flair for it."

"Is that what they call it?" Aziraphale inquired, as Crowley picked at the eggs. "Come on, what demonic workings did you employ? And then I'll give you the full briefing on Scotland." 

"Wasn't demonic at all, actually," Crowley told him. "Good old human-style ingenuity."

"Oh?" 

"You tell me Scotland first, you lost the coin toss." 

Crowley ate, spare and neat, while Aziraphale recounted the temptation and the blessing, as well as his renewed low opinion of horses in general and Scottish horses in specific. He received at least some sympathetic noises in return, but he didn't angle as hard as he might have for Crowley to feel a bit guilty over the horse business. 

"Now, tell me about _Hamlet_ ," he finished. 

"Oh, well, I've invented something brilliant," Crowley said. "I'm calling it 'aiming very tightly to sell things'."

"Catchy."

"I'll refine it. I thought to myself, outside of Aziraphale, who is surely one of a kind," he drawled, and Aziraphale gave him a grin, "who'd want to go and see this play? You know, what's it _really about_? And who'd enjoy that? So I went to watch it again and, well, Hamlet's just come from University, and the whole thing practically opens with someone telling Horatio, ey, you're a University-educated man, you're qualified to talk to ghosts." Crowley leaned forward. "So I thought, you know who wants to see a play about disaffected, over-educated prats?"

"University students," Aziraphale said, eyes widening. 

"Got it in one. So off I went to every blessed center of higher learning in London or close enough to get to the Globe, and I told 'em about this play about some young fellow defying the man -- "

"Which man?"

"Any old man, really, they aren't picky. And that was all right, loads of them got up parties to go and see it. But I was thinking about the ghost, too, and it seemed to me there's plenty of people who like a good scare. Even if it is only the first ten minutes of the thing, if they go for that they'll hang about to see if the ghost comes back, won't they? So I got some of the little handbills about the play from the Globe and left 'em with every fortuneteller I could find and I told them, look, if you hand these out, there's a free ticket to the play in it for you."

"That's quite industrious of you, actually," Aziraphale observed.

"Oh, it's all in the service of wickedness. The theatre's pretty dreadfully immoral according to your side."

"Oh, no! It can be educational and uplifting!"

"Well, for Satan's sake don't tell my people that." Crowley sat back, waving a hand airily. "After that it was a doddle. All the ladies like Burbage anyway and he's playing such a _sensitive_ young man, I told them. Everyone likes a good swordfight, too, I put that about in all the taverns. Then I put out a rumor that the censors had got hold of all this 'ghost' business and everyone left in London who hadn't heard of _Hamlet_ didn't want to miss out before it got shut down."

"Aren't you worried they really will shut it down?" Aziraphale asked. The whole story left him a little breathless, imagining Crowley spending all that time and effort just to get the play to come off well. 

"If they tried now there'd be a riot. No, they put down those rumors very forcibly, which means even the pious old blighters who thought it was immoral now think it's got the royal stamp of approval." Crowley gave him a self-satisfied smile. "It's a whole new era for me. This aiming-very-tightly-to-sell-things business is going to be a huge win for Hell." 

"Well, I can't say I approve of that, but I'm very grateful for _Hamlet_. Will's delighted," Aziraphale said. 

"Yes, do tell about _Will_ ," Crowley answered, leaning forward. "And where you were so early of a morning that you've clearly already eaten breakfast." 

"Nowhere in particular. Angelic business you're not privy to," Aziraphale told him, a little too quickly. Crowley's eyes narrowed behind their little smoked-glass lenses. 

"Angel, you didn't," he said, sounding gleeful, horrified, and disbelieving all at once. "Were you out all night carousing with _actors?_ "

"There was no carousing at all and we weren't out -- " Aziraphale realized his mistake as soon as he said it.

"Oho! _You were in!_ " Crowley pointed a finger at him. "You were doing low, filthy things with humans in their own private homes all night long!" 

"It wasn't some Roman orgy, Crowley, for Heaven's sake," Aziraphale said. "Human, singular, and it hardly lasted all night."

"Wasn't any good then, was he?" Crowley asked.

"I would never kiss and tell, but that's a cruel and erroneous assumption," Aziraphale informed him. 

"But you did spend the night with William Shakespeare!" Crowley hooted. There was something a little mean-spirited behind it, Aziraphale felt. "My stars, what would Upstairs say?"

"That I was providing inspiration to a very important force for art and light in the world," Aziraphale retorted. 

"Oh, is that what you were doing? Gave him a thorough inspiring, did you?"

"Don't be abominable. It's not like you haven't spent your share of time corrupting composers and such."

"Most of 'em were well corrupted before I got there, and I never tried to lie about it like a very bad liar indeed," Crowley told him, relaxing back in his chair. "So, did you use him cruelly and leave him while he slept?" 

"We had a nice breakfast. Unlike some people, he's a civilized man." 

"And does this civilized man expect a repeat performance?"

"Oh, I very much doubt it," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. Crowley frowned. "I think it was a bit of a lark for him. He did say to tell you when I saw you that you must come see the show all the way through again now that it's a success. You really should, Crowley, it's so much better with an audience," he insisted. 

"How many times am I bound to watch the entire Danish royal family die in a frankly somewhat stupid fashion?" Crowley complained. "I've already been once with you and once on my own and seen half of it yesterday while I was looking for you. I could probably play Hamlet myself at this point." 

"It would mean a lot to the players," Aziraphale said. 

"I don't give a toss about the players until they do something funnier," Crowley said. 

"Come to dinner tonight, then. Will invited you specifically, and he's found a lovely little ale house that does a fine rabbit. You aren't busy, are you?" 

"Well, that's the nice thing about being a demon, my calendar's always open," Crowley said. "Missing appointments is what my lot do."

"You should at least cancel ahead of time," Aziraphale said disapprovingly. 

"Yes," Crowley replied, "but I won't, because...demon. Anyway, I'm off to cause mischief. See you at the Globe? Eight-ish?" 

"Best make it nine, it's quite a long play."

Crowley nodded, taking another egg as he left. "Good morrow, angel!"

"Good morrow, serpent," Aziraphale called in reply, but the front door was already slamming.

* * *

Will was at the tiring-house door when Aziraphale and Crowley turned up that evening, Crowley for once reasonably punctual. 

"A fine evening to you, friends!" he called, bounding down the steps to meet them. "I come with good news for you, Master Crowley." 

"Hamlet canceled, is it?" Crowley asked. 

"Not while it turns a profit," Will informed him, throwing his arms around their shoulders, leading them away from the cluster of gentlewomen waiting for a peep at Master Burbage. "No, better than that. Some of the understudies have agreed to put on a special performance of _Midsummer_. It's to be done up not on stage, at the Globe, but by His Majesty's permit on the hunting grounds near the palace. They're going to call it _A Most Diurse Comedy of the Playwright Will Shakespeare, Performed Upon The Grounds Of His Majesty's Deer Park_."

"Rough to fit that on a handbill," Crowley said, but he looked pleased. 

"Well, you will have to work your wizardry upon it," Will replied. "As they are beginning to say you're an alchemist, sir." 

"Wouldn't be caught dead," Crowley answered, as they emerged onto the street. Will released them, but kept up a brisk pace towards the ale house. "Stinking fellows, alchemists. Too enthusiastic about bodily waste by half." 

"Just as well, I suppose," Will said, dropping Aziraphale a wink. "I should say the devil's at your heels already."

"This is the thanks I get for _Hamlet_ ," Crowley complained. "Accusations of witchcraft! I was promised a good dinner." 

"And so shall you have. Truly, the least I can do," Will said, more serious now. "I shouldn't say such things. Master Fell works for the Church and says he handles your business; I suppose they wouldn't like to hear you're considered a magician in some circles."

"You might say we're of the same stock," Aziraphale said.

"But the church and I parted ways some time ago," Crowley finished. "There was a dispute regarding some agricultural holdings."

"I poached a bit in my youth myself," Will agreed, as they arrived at the ale house. "Now here we are, and in you go." 

It was, Aziraphale felt, a simply lovely dinner. Crowley ate little, as usual, but that left more for Aziraphale. Both Crowley and Will were in rare form, and Aziraphale was content, mostly, to listen to them argue philosophy and history. If he had been a more vain sort of being, he might have thought they were showing off for him, but that couldn't be. After all, Will hardly needed to put in effort to impress him, and Crowley was, well, Crowley. 

It was only towards the end of the meal, with Will warm and complacent on the bench next to him and Crowley watching them through his smoked-glass lenses from across the table, that Aziraphale began to suspect either of them had ulterior motives. Will had caught a curl of Aziraphale's hair between his fingers, down at the nape of his neck, and was twisting it gently, but he wasn't looking at Aziraphale; he was looking at Crowley, whose face had taken on a predatory expression generally reserved for serious temptations. 

"I think you have an inspiration, Master William Shakespeare," Crowley said, when he saw Aziraphale casting glances between the pair of them. 

"More of a suggestion, I suppose," Will replied, his hand brushing Aziraphale's neck gently as he slung his arm around his shoulders. "If you'd be interested in such things." 

"I'm rarely one to say no to a suggestion," Crowley replied. "But then, I don't think you've run the idea past Angel here, have you?" 

Aziraphale's gaze slid back to Will's face, which was a handsome sort of question mark. 

They were men of the world -- well, one of them was a man of the world, and the other two had at least been around the world for a good many centuries. If he said no, Crowley would shrug it off as a lark and Will would be a gentleman about the thing. If he said yes...it might get complicated for him if Heaven ever called him to task, but Will and Crowley wouldn't be difficult about it in the morning. He thought, at any rate. This wasn't something he and Crowley did, but was it really so different from sharing a delicious meal? 

He knew Crowley, at least, could see the moment he rationalized it to himself. A wicked grin broke over the demon's face. 

"Mine isn't suitable for such revels," Crowley said. 

"Mine," Aziraphale declared. "No aspersions on your bed, Will, but mine is larger."

"Typical churchman," Will said to Crowley, who snorted and stood, tossing out enough coin to cover the meal. At Aziraphale's stern look, he sheepishly added extra for the serving maid.

* * *

Aziraphale's snug town-house was one of the larger ones in the neighborhood, and in order to keep up appearances for the staff (necessary to his station) he did in fact keep a bedroom and a very comfortable bed, which he mainly used for reading in. Crowley had never seen it, but Crowley was difficult to impress when it came to material goods. Will, on the other hand, paused in the doorway as Aziraphale shed his ruff and began to light a few more candles. 

"You sleep in your library, I see," Will said, as each new candle illuminated a little more of the vast book-cases that lined the room. "You must be the most well-read churchman of my acquaintance."

"You don't know that many," Crowley pointed out, throwing himself into a chair and slouching down in it, lighting a candle behind Will's back with a flick of his fingers. Aziraphale gave him a disapproving _not around the humans_ look. 

"Hardly my fault; I do my best to stay on their windward side," Will said, coming into the room and turning to get the full scope of it. "Quite the patron of the press as well as the theater." 

"I did say I liked stories," Aziraphale told him. 

"These here are books of prognostication! You'd best not be caught in public with this one," Will added, indicating a title which was both French and banned in England, two strikes against it. "I see it now all too clearly."

"Do you?" Crowley inquired amusedly, before Aziraphale could. 

"Of course. They're wrong to call you a witch, Crowley. Clearly this good Angel is the witch; you are the familiar. Thank you for lending me his services a while," Will said teasingly to Aziraphale, before turning to Crowley. "Do you turn into a cat when not needed?" 

"A snake," Crowley said, and Will laughed. 

"Yes, of course. Well, you are needed now. Isn't he?" Will asked Aziraphale. Crowley, sprawled in the chair, rested his elbow on the arm and his chin in his palm.

"But what if I want a show?" he asked. 

"What, shall I recite for you?"

"Recite for him," Crowley gestured at Aziraphale. "I'll come along presently." 

"I hope so," Will informed him gravely, but he went to Aziraphale, who was standing by the bed, lighting one last candle. 

Aziraphale couldn't help but look sidelong at Crowley even as Will touched his face and kissed him. It wasn't that he had much modesty -- they'd seen each other in much more compromising and strange situations than this. It was simply that this was novel to them, and at this point, novelty was as much a source of worry as delight. 

Then Will leaned into him, drawing his attention back. They hadn't kissed much the first time round, and Will's fussy little mustache poked him with the odd bristle. Still, it was nice, and it was simple, and a soft noise from Crowley said it was also _appreciated._

Will gave him a tug towards the low bed, seating himself on the edge and pulling Aziraphale between his legs. 

"I had no chance of this last night," he said, working Aziraphale's breeches-laces open. Aziraphale cupped his cheek, but Will only leaned into it for a second before craning his neck up to whisper, "Cheat out."

"Sorry?" Aziraphale asked in the same hushed whisper. 

"Cheat out. Turn a bit. So our resident familiar can see," Will replied, and Aziraphale laughed and kissed the top of his head. 

"No whispering," Crowley called, watching them over the ridge of his smoked-glass lenses. Aziraphale, letting Will push one of his hips away just slightly, could see the yellow pupil filling Crowley's entire eye, save for the black slits in the middle. The hand that wasn't indolently propping up his chin was resting on his stomach, fingers tapping idly on the brocade. 

"He tells me in my ear that you are in his heart," Will replied, amused.

"None of that, that's from one of the funny ones," Crowley said. "I know that one." 

"We shall have to woo in more earnest, then," Will said, tugging the laces free and pulling down breeches and hose together just enough to grasp Aziraphale's thighs. "You must see to your doublet," he told Aziraphale.

"Why must I _oh!_ " Aziraphale broke off as Will took him in his mouth, and Aziraphale's hips bucked. One of Aziraphale's hands groped for Will's shoulder, the crown of his head, anything to steady himself. 

"Your doublet, Angel," Crowley said.

"My wh...I...yes," Aziraphale managed, gasping under Will's mouth. "Doublet -- "

He was about to simply miracle the damned thing open but Crowley's hand rose from his breeches, hovering in warning. Aziraphale looked down. Will had his head tipped, at least enough to see his reactions to the heat of his mouth, the little twitches of his tongue. Will winked at him. 

It wasn't that he couldn't miracle the doublet off and make Will think he hadn't seen anything at the same time. It was more that...Crowley didn't wish him to. Will might think he was directing this little play, but Aziraphale suspected Crowley was producing it. 

Aziraphale fumbled with the buttons, fingers slipping repeatedly on the gold silk as he tried to maintain his composure. He almost got one undone, but then Will made a gentle graze with his teeth along the underside of his cock and he groaned. Will laughed, a deep vibration in his throat, and Aziraphale jerked forward, one hand going to Will's shoulder.

"Ah, see, I told you I'd come along," Crowley said, pushing himself out of his chair and swaggering over. "Not to privilege rank over talent but to your knees if you would, Will."

Will pulled his mouth away briefly and slid off the bed to his knees, moving Aziraphale back with him as he went. Crowley stepped in behind him, facing Aziraphale over him, _tsk_ ing as he guided Will's head back to his task. As Will sucked again, Crowley began unbuttoning Aziraphale's doublet for him, then undoing the lacing of the shirt underneath. His fingers traced the curlicue of a leafy branch embroidered in pale cream on the white shirt, with its round, nearly invisible fruit dangling from little offshoots. 

Crowley tugged the doublet down Aziraphale's arms and tossed it aside without looking. It landed, hanging, on the pull-handle of his wardrobe. 

Leaving Aziraphale to take care of his shirt himself, Crowley slid easily to his knees behind Will and wrapped his arms around his waist. Aziraphale looked down at the two of them, Crowley grinning up at him even as he nipped at Will's ear, and nearly lost control. 

"Be nice to him," Crowley said in Will's ear, "And you can have me after." 

Aziraphale was shocked, though he probably shouldn't have been, by how blatant and filthy it was. Crowley was always the bargainer, always the tempter with promises of riches later, the one who had come up with the Arrangement and the one who was now murmuring encouragements quietly to Will. Perhaps it was shocking in that it was for Aziraphale. It was a bargain that didn't really benefit Crowley at all. Well, perhaps a little, but Crowley didn't seem especially taken with Will, not starstruck like Aziraphale had been. 

Then again, Crowley was now undressing Will as well, pulling his doublet open and sliding a hand under the belt of his breeches. Will groaned and Aziraphale gasped out a hasty, "Will, I can't -- " 

Crowley laughed wickedly as Will's hands flexed on his thighs, tacit permission, and Aziraphale tightened his fingers in Will's hair as he came. He tried to be gentle about it but he suspected a small miracle from Crowley was more help than his admittedly lax self-control. Will pulled back and then leaned in again to press his forehead against Aziraphale's hip. 

"Reward enough," he moaned, and Aziraphale could see one of Crowley's hands still down his breeches. "Leave, Crowley, do leave a minute." 

"Divine, isn't he?" Crowley asked, but he did remove his hand, settling both around Will's waist, fingers loosely interlocked.

"Him or me?" Aziraphale managed, still breathing heavily.

"Does it matter?" Crowley's voice was suspiciously light, but his face was guileless -- or rather, it had only the usual amount of guile. He rested his head on Will's shoulder, and Will turned a little to smile at him. 

"His divinity is proven. Let me up and I'll try to prove mine to you," he told Crowley, who raised his eyebrows in challenge and released him, rising to his feet in a smooth, swift motion. Aziraphale took pity on Will's pride and helped him up under the guise of pulling him up for a kiss. Crowley tugged Will's shirt off, interrupting them. 

"Are you undressing all three of us?" Will asked, twisting around. 

"All part of the service," Crowley said. Aziraphale allowed Will to turn fully in his arms and lean back against him. Will reached for Crowley's glasses, but Crowley blocked him with a hand. 

"I'll keep these, if it please you," he said, all his lightheartedness momentarily gone. "I have sensitive eyes." 

"And I have eyes to see," Will replied evenly. "I've put them to decent use, my gold-orizoned friend." 

Crowley looked over Will's shoulder to Aziraphale, a complicated communication passing between them. The glasses were partly an affectation; he normally just used a bit of demonic power to ensure most people didn't notice. The dark lenses helped, but Crowley also thought he looked rather sharp in them. If Will had seen through the glasses _and_ the illusion, there was no knowing what else he spoke of in jest but meant in earnest. 

Crowley held very still as Will reached out a second time, tugging the glasses down his hawkish nose. Will folded them carefully and pressed them into Aziraphale's hand. 

"He can keep them for you," Will said, and then a smile lit his face, crinkling the little crow's feet at the edges. "Now, where is all your gaiety, Familiar? I believe you promised me a treat." 

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale again, clearly a little bewildered, but after a brief second looked back at Will. "So I did."


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley didn't normally bother much with sex; it was such an easy lever that it almost felt like cheating to use it against humans, who were already at a disadvantage. It was entertaining, of course, but for someone who had built galaxies, the return was rarely worth the investment. 

He hadn't thought Aziraphale had any truck with it at all, and then he'd showed up fresh from a human's bed, not even guilty or apologetic about it. It piqued Crowley's curiosity; you thought you knew a chap after fifty-five centuries. Either he hadn't been paying attention, or this Will was something special. Of course, he wrote funny plays, but so had Aristophanes, and what a bore he'd been. 

Will was proving to be exceptional, at least for a human, and Crowley did sort of like anyone who amused Aziraphale. But it wasn't until Will took Crowley's glasses off his face that he became Interesting. And Crowley, never one to bother much with the consequences of his actions, wanted to know just _how_ Interesting. 

Aziraphale, he could tell just by looking and also by certain infernal senses, was radiating bliss, and Will seemed very content for a human who hadn't yet got his kit off. They both watched with gratifying attention as Crowley languidly slipped off his own doublet and shirt, breeches and hose, leaving only his smalls. When he slid back onto the bed, Will made a high, urgent noise of desire. Aziraphale, Crowley could tell, was beginning to suspect something.

He pulled the last of his clothes off, drawing a leg up to put himself on display: tight red curls and narrow pink folds.

Without the glasses it _was_ easier to see their reactions, even if they could also see the defiance and curiosity in his face. Aziraphale looked at Will with concern; Will looked startled, but after a second he tilted his head thoughtfully, and then broke out into laughter. 

"What a surprise you are, Master Crowley!" he cried, before Crowley could even get a full handle on why he might be laughing. "Or is it to be mistress in private?"

"Master," Crowley said, bridling at the laughter and daring him to object. 

"Master it shall be, then," Will said disarmingly. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who shrugged. "What a lovely fellow you are," Will told him, his face earnest. Crowley preened a little, anger forgotten. Aziraphale released Will, and he knelt over Crowley on the bed, bending to kiss him. He was good at it, as humans went, Crowley was prepared to admit. He wrapped his thighs around Will's hips, pulling him closer. 

"I could worship you," Will told him.

"Some have," Crowley agreed, then, louder, "Angel, come to bed." 

Aziraphale joined them, lying on his side to watch as they kissed. Will's hands were everywhere at once -- clutching at Crowley's arms, sliding up his ribcage to gently squeeze his nipple, sliding down his belly and between his legs to open him gently. Crowley tilted his hips in invitation, letting his head fall back, and felt Aziraphale smooth stray hair off his forehead as Will pressed inside him. 

He sometimes did forget how fun this could be, especially without professional motivations to entangle things. It was lovely to rock gently against Will, letting the mortal do most of the work, and be made to feel nice. He reveled in it for a little while, in Will's muffled groans and busy hands, and looked over to see how Aziraphale was taking things -- 

A long shock ran through him when he saw Aziraphale's face. There was a certain focus there that Crowley associated more with Aziraphale reading a good book than anything else, but there was an intensity to his eyes that was unusual. Not quite new, but nothing he associated with quiet bedrooms and safe houses in London. The last time Crowley had seen it was on the battlefield at Camlann, when Aziraphale realized his side was going to lose. Before that, not since the palace of Pharaoh, the night the children died. A fierce, burning concentration that, for the first time, didn't seem tinged with rage. 

Will bucked, and Crowley wrapped an arm around his shoulders, head tipping back, reaching out blindly with his other hand. He felt Aziraphale take it and lift it to his mouth. 

When the angel kissed his knuckles there was a brief second of overwhelming pleasure, a wash of untempered holy ecstasy as angelic form brushed up against demonic on an entirely separate plane from where Will was thrusting between his thighs. It filled him with light, made it feel like the light might burst right out of his lips and fingertips. For a moment he thought he might actually see Her again. He barely registered Will's orgasm or his own over the roaring in his ears, the brief spiritual communion that a human body couldn't fully contain.

He floated in the bliss that followed for a while, serenely unconcerned with any sort of return to Earthly reality. It wasn't until he came back to himself that he realized he was panting for breath, his sweat cooling on his skin. Will was lying on his back next to him, dazed. Aziraphale, still propped on his side, now looked gently embarrassed, as though he'd overshot a little. The room filled with a satisfied silence while Crowley tried to reorient himself to which way was properly up. 

It was clear from Will's glassy eyes and heaving chest that some of what Aziraphale had shared had bled over from Crowley into Will's consciousness. That was probably something to be concerned about, but it wasn't _his_ problem. Let the angel sort it out if he'd a mind to, he'd caused the problem to begin with. 

"Oh my lords and angels," Will finally said, wiping his face with one hand. Probably fine, then.

Will turned and wrapped an arm around Crowley's waist, pulling him sideways and back against him, one hand curling Crowley's hair out of the way. Aziraphale smiled down on them, spooned up against each other. "Come here, Angel. Master Crowley wants for warming." 

"Master Crowley is indulged more than is good for him," Aziraphale said, but he slid closer, until Will could tip Crowley over onto Aziraphale's chest. Aziraphale secured him there with an arm around his waist while Will leaned on Crowley's shoulder. 

"What is good for any of us?" Will asked philosophically, deep voice vibrating against Crowley's back. "Life is fleeting. I had rather die tomorrow having this than live twenty years without it." 

"Won't," Crowley mumbled dazedly.

"Thank you, soothsayer," Will told him. 

"Does he always talk this much?" Crowley asked, into Aziraphale's chest.

"You have met him," Aziraphale pointed out.

"Yes, but unlike my heroines I can speak both mirth and matter," Will said. "What would you, Masters? A poem? A tragical epithet? One of my early soliloquies? I can recite near all of them yet." 

Aziraphale was opening his mouth to chide him, but Crowley spoke first.

"Tell us a story, Will," he said quietly. 

Will's whole being seemed to light up; Crowley couldn't see him, but he could feel the delight filling him, distracting him. Aziraphale seemed pleased, too, from what he could tell of the angel's gentle touches on his arms and face. 

"Well," Will said, settling into his narrative. "I have in mind a new play. A romantical comedy. Mistaken identity, many songs, a humorous duel."

"Pirates?" Crowley asked. "Love a good pirate."

"I could put a pirate in, but hush now, who writes this play, you or I?" Will said. "It begins with a lad, Cesario, taking service with the Duke of....somewhere. Somewhere Italian. Illirya for now." 

"Fierce, warlike fellow?" Aziraphale asked.

"Not in the least. The duke is sick with love for a countess. Ah, but this is Cesario's story, you see. Cesario is secretly....call her Viola, a young gentlewoman in disguise, having been shipwrecked on the shores of this man's duchy and entered his service as a man. I draw my inspiration from life," Will added, kissing Crowley's shoulder. 

"Hear that, angel?" Crowley asked. "M'a muse."

"You rarely amuse," Aziraphale told him fondly.

"A good pun," Will pronounced. "At any rate, Cesario-nee-Viola is sent to woo the countess on behalf of the duke. But oh, dear! The countess will have none but Cesario! Many comedic interludes with jealous suitors and loutish hangers-on to follow, but the crux of the story is that Cesario loves the duke, and the duke loves the countess, and the countess loves Cesario."

"Doesn't sound very comedic to me," Aziraphale said.

"But wait! Cesario has a brother, a twin belike herself, Sebastian," Will continued, lost off in another world now, fingers drumming on Crowley's hip. "Sebastian, likewise rendered friendless by the shipwreck, arrives in this duchy intent on seeking the duke and entering his service. Zounds! Instead he encounters the smitten countess! She once again presses her suit, and Sebastian agrees to wed, so long as -- "

"Will," Aziraphale said. Will fell silent. Crowley knew why. "Not another secret wedding, Will."

"There's nothing wrong with a secret wedding!" Will protested, perhaps a little too much. 

"All your friars either want to marry off the heroine or pretend she's dead! Sometimes both!" 

"That's good entertainment! The audience loves a secret wedding. Just picture it, my lords," Will said, propping himself up further on Crowley, elbows perilously close to his kidneys. "All of them in one place. The countess insisting she has wed Cesario, the Duke beginning to believe her and all a rage with jealousy, another suitor claiming Cesario hath given him a bloody coxcomb -- Cesario all unknowing what to say -- and then enters Sebastian. Cesario's own brother alive and the cause of all dismay! Oh, the drama!" Will rolled over, still lying on top of Crowley, now mostly draped across Crowley's waist. Crowley grunted but didn't object. "Magnificent! Viola admits to being who she be, the Duke realizes his love for his valet, the countess hath married a fellow and not a maid after all. Exeunt upon a song perhaps." 

"Grand," Crowley said. "Two tickets for opening night."

"So shall you have, and every night thereafter. But now to sleep," Will said, rolling off him. He tugged at the blankets on the bed and Aziraphale shifted enough to free them. Will draped himself against their sides, drawing the blankets up. 

"He kicks in his sleep," Aziraphale murmured to Crowley.

"Not when I'm in the bed, he doesn't," Crowley mumbled back, already half-unconscious. Will settled in, eyes slipping shut, and Crowley's breathing slowed. He knew Aziraphale would probably lie awake while they slept, and made sure with a little infernal influence that there was a decent book within arm's reach of the bed on the nightstand.

* * *

Crowley woke when the first rays of light slipped through the dark drapes on the bedroom window. Will was shifting, sliding quietly away from them and rising. Crowley heard him fumble a little, then the soft flare of a second candle being lit from the one still burning near the door. He opened his eyes to watch as Will made his way across the room to the writing-desk in the corner, pulling Aziraphale's dressing-gown on as he went.

"Cheek," he murmured softly to Aziraphale, as Will took up the angel's quill and pulled a sheet of foolscap towards him. 

"He can't help it," Aziraphale whispered back. "I don't mind." 

"What's he writing, then?"

"He was about to write a sonnet about my hair," Aziraphale said. "He's been threatening it for days." 

"Mm. And what are you nudging him towards instead?"

"His new play," Aziraphale said, sounding pleased, but also somehow a little sad. "The one with the love triangle."

"What's it to be called?"

"He's thinking of _The Merry Maid-Valet._ "

"Bit of a spoiler for the plot, isn't it?"

"Well, it's only a working title. Anyway, be gracious about it. He's writing it for you."

"For me?" Crowley asked.

"Well, I've got _Hamlet_ and will probably have a sonnet or two besides. I can't always be around to stop him. No reason you shouldn't have one," Aziraphale said, one hand stroking his hair affectionately. "What are we to do, Crowley?"

"About Will?" Crowley asked. "Nothing to be done, I expect, except make sure he doesn't get the pox, or get imprisoned for sedition by the censors." 

"Well, yes, but that wasn't what I meant," Aziraphale said. Will scratched away at the foolscap, muttering under his breath. 

"What, then?"

"Oh, I don't know. All of this. Us here on Earth. The Arrangement. This, what we did last night. It's sacred to some humans, you know, it's...it's a bond oath. I mean, it can be. It isn't always, but..." 

"It's just biology," Crowley said, which was one of his better lies. "Except for your little touch of divine ecstasy, and I think you can cover that under 'inspiring the arts' in your paperwork." 

Aziraphale sighed, more or less conceding the point, and Crowley resolved not to push him quite so hard on the Arrangement for a bit. Maybe let him win the coin toss once in a while. He definitely wouldn't push on this again, at least for a while; best not to press his luck. Anyway, there would be plenty of funny Shakespeare plays in the future, and maybe a repeat performance like they'd had tonight at some point. And undoubtedly there would be other mortals in the rest of the history of Earth, which didn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.

"Keep on as we have done, I suppose, and then improvise," Crowley suggested, feeling sleep pulling him back down. Aziraphale tended to fret more than was good for him, but Crowley felt the best remedy for that was to let him get on with it and take him to a nice meal when it got to be too much. 

"I suppose we must," Aziraphale agreed. Crowley let his eyes close, and the next time he woke it was to Will kissing the back of his head.

"I must away to the Globe," Will said. "Rehearsals, writing, you know how it is. But you two shall come to our next opening night; I'll leave tickets for you."

"Of course," Aziraphale agreed for them both. "Go well, Will."

"I always do. Tell that one when he wakes that he has no fear of his secret escaping on my account."

"He knows," Aziraphale said. "Go on with you, now." 

"I go, singing all the while," Will agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

Later, for a value of later that included Crowley dressing and slinking away while Aziraphale fretted, a few awkward dinners after that with a general drift towards Never Talking About It, a very terrible but at least very fancy funeral for Will, and several hundred years of human history -- 

That is to say, later, after the end of the world, an angel and a demon went to the theatre. 

It was Aziraphale and Crowley's first show since the Unpleasantness. They'd agreed that it was best to maintain a low profile for a while, at least throughout the summer and autumn that followed their executions. They dined at the Ritz occasionally but otherwise weren't often in public. 

Then winter had come and the plague with it. Aziraphale had stress baked and Crowley had slept, until finally enough was enough. Crowley, cranky after his nap, hunted up Pestilence and told him in no uncertain terms that he, Crowley, the dreaded of Hell, was not having with any of this Second Wave nonsense. If Pestilence didn't smarten up and go back into retirement, Crowley would give him a large severance package, heavy on the _severance._ Pestilence considered his offer, checked with Downstairs about what Crowley had been up to recently, and then hurriedly accepted the scrap of cotton and elastic Crowley offered him, tying it around his own face. 

Thus, in the late summer just after the one-year anniversary of armageddon, one theatre tentatively opened again. It held all its performances in the park, so people could spread six-foot-wide blankets and sit decently apart. 

Crowley brought a hamper from the Ritz. Aziraphale brought chocolate-dipped madeleines, and a matching tartan blanket and low-slung lawn chair to sit in.

It wasn't _Hamlet_. It wasn't even _Twelfth Night_ , exactly. Some would say it wasn't "properly" _Twelfth Night_ , but Will had never been proper in any case. A young playwright whom Aziraphale passingly knew, Crowley wasn't sure how, had taken the opportunity of pandemic unemployment to write a play called _Twelve Nights In June_. According to an early review Aziraphale showed Crowley, it was "A queer retelling of one of Shakespeare's classic works." 

"I think that means it's supposed to be even funnier than the original," Aziraphale told him, when he was not-very-subtly angling for Crowley to invite himself along to see it.

"I think that means it's gayer than the original," Crowley replied. 

"Call it what you like, my dear," Aziraphale had told him, looking perplexed, and Crowley had grinned at him and suggested a picnic dinner. 

Sometime during the first act, Aziraphale had said, "Oh. That sort of queer," very softly, and Crowley had leaned his head on his shoulder, and they'd stayed that way until Cesario and Orsino exited for the last time on a brightly decorated Pride Parade float. In fact, they stayed that way for a while after, until the bows had been taken and most of the audience had dispersed. 

"That was lovely, I thought," Aziraphale said, shaking crumbs out of the blanket as they finally packed up the remains of the picnic. Crowley tried to litter the wine bottle. Aziraphale collected it up behind him. 

The Bentley was flagrantly illegally parked on a grass verge nearby, but before they reached it a young man came pelting out from backstage, calling, "Mr. Fell! Mr. Fell!"

"Lord, it's a mortal," Crowley murmured, just as the young man breathlessly arrived. 

"Be nice," Aziraphale told him. 

"Mr. Fell, you came!" the man panted, beaming at him. "Did you like it?"

"It was wonderful, Mr. Zaman," Aziraphale told him. 

"Ekram, I told you."

Aziraphale smiled. "Ekram here wrote the play," he said to Crowley. 

"Good stuff," Crowley said. 

"Thanks," Ekram said, eyes darting back and forth between them, curious. 

"Oh! Where are my manners? Crowley, this is Ekram Zaman, he's a patron of the bookshop. Ekram, this is Crowley, my..." Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, not quite searching for the word, but not quite _not_ searching, either.

"I'm the devil on his shoulder," Crowley said with a wicked grin. "You're a patron, eh? Few souls brave enough."

"Mr. Fell let me spend an afternoon in the shop during that awful rainstorm last winter," Ekram said earnestly. "He said I could stay if I promised not to touch anything and that I could read all the New Aquarian magazines I liked."

"Adam's doing?" Crowley asked Aziraphale.

"Adam's doing," Aziraphale confirmed. 

"So now, if I'm very nice and knock politely, sometimes he lets me in. I still owe you dinner for that rainstorm, though," Ekram said, turning what was clearly his most charming smile on Aziraphale again. 

"Nonsense," Aziraphale scoffed. "Not after we got to see that lovely play. You must let _us_ buy dinner sometime."

"I'd let him if I were you, he has expensive taste in food," Crowley said, slinging an arm over Aziraphale's shoulders. Ekram looked back and forth between them again, and his smile turned a little sly. Crowley cackled. 

"Tomorrow night, after the show," Aziraphale said, beaming at both of them. 

"We'll show you a good time," Crowley added. 

"Are you sure?" Ekram asked.

"We're earnest patrons of the arts, we are. Off you run, someone with a clipboard is looking for you," Crowley said, pointing over Ekram's shoulder.

"Tomorrow night!" Ekram called, as he ran off. "Looking forward to it!" 

"Fiend," Aziraphale said. Crowley let him go and picked up the hamper again. "But that was sweet of you."

"What a horrible thing to say," Crowley remarked. 

"Reminds you of Will, doesn't he? He reminded me of him anyway, first time we met. Same sort of...overfilled-cup energy," Aziraphale said, as Crowley loaded the hamper into the back of the Bentley. "Fewer puns, but puns do seem to have gone out of fashion." 

"Get in the car, Angel," Crowley replied. 

"He's going to be fun, you know," Aziraphale said, doing up his seatbelt. The Bentley didn't have seatbelts; this one was tartan. 

"He's going to be trouble." Crowley replied, not bothering to look behind him as he backed around in a Y-turn. He sped out of the park and into London with a roar. "But I think we're due for a bit of trouble." 

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said, quieter now. "Not just for that offer, but for the theatre, and the picnic, and your patience. For everything."

"Yeah, well," Crowley replied, screeching through a red light, bound for Mayfair. "Every four hundred years or so you may have a playwright. As a treat."

**Author's Note:**

> In doing research for this fanfic I discovered that they did in fact have potatoes in Shakespearean England, which means that ya bard could have had a taste for french fries. Just sit with that image for a while.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Bard in the Hand by copperbadge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261758) by [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose)




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